The Dead People

She was as dull as watching someone else eat when you’d already eaten and had somewhere better to be. A face with an income and a survival instinct. I’d taken her up on an invitation to meet outside of the place we were bribed to be. This had resulted in a series of underwhelming revelations. She wore makeup and the tamer fashion from a few seasons before. Her father and her mother liked her. Her brother sold ink to companies who needed it. She liked the cinema and funny men on the television. Baking was in there and swimming happened most weeks. She would analyse what was in front of her as what it was. There was never a subtext. I could lie to this woman if I wished and I did – mainly about my reasons for being present. She was the crack men fall into when they aren’t looking, when they are daydreaming in their late twenties. No fizz, no reason to leave her, so just stay. Stay in the middle of the pot, away from the bubbles and the uncleanable stains. Limbo in normality.

‘So what will we do this weekend? Do you fancy a walk in the countryside?’

‘Oh yes, that would be great. Afterwards we can shove a twelve-inch black mamba up our arseholes and go fetish clubbing. Get some syphilitic nymphomaniac to do you in the puss, whilst I snort cocaine off a bald dwarfs head.’

‘Excuse me? Sorry… What?’

‘You heard you flat twat… or alternatively we could just have half a bottle of wine and watch a film.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s up to you, eithers fine by me?’

‘Are you joking?’

‘No these are the options. Just pick one.’

‘Right, well I’ll stick to the latter.’

‘That’s settled then.’

One on her creased forehead.

I rolled over and so did she. Bed time for the dead people.